Jack be Nimble
by psycho pixie
Summary: Yay! Another chapter, another string of events. The plot thickens! . . . Not yet, anyway.
1. Jack is Nimble

Hi there

Hi there! I know that by the end of this, you'll all think I got Hannibal Lecter out of character, but I honestly think he'd change a bit after becoming a parent. This is not to say that he's lost that maniacal edge that everyone loves about him, he's just not very willing to show it in front of his daughter. This is obviously going by the book here, because in the book, Hannibal and Clarice made a fashionable run for it. And who's to say they don't have kids? I mean _really_. Well . . . except for maybe Thomas Harris. Enter the disclaimer—I don't own 'em. Not Hannibal, Clarice, Jack Crawford (who is in fact NOT dead), or Ardelia Mapp. The only one I do own is Jacqueline, but only partially because if it weren't for two characters I didn't own, she would have no reason to grace this page. I know this story sucks, but try not to flame me too bad. Not like that guy in _The Real Deal_. If you have a problem with the way I write, then go read something nice and third-person. I just wanted to transfer one of my fanfics from paper to computer. Bye!

*

I suppose that by all right, I should be locked away in an orphanage or in a state house, and the FBI would see to it that I was locked away where my brain could be picked apart if they knew who I was. That's how my parents were raised--only because their parents were dead, of course. But as a sixteen-year-old girl, I believe that if something were to happen to Mom and Dad, I could get what I wanted very easily by nature.

Sorry I didn't introduce myself—I must seem like I have no manners. My name is Jacqueline Starling-Lecter. My mother is Clarice Starling and my father is Hannibal Lecter.

Just to set the record straight, I do in fact know my father's hobbies, and to his benign amusement, I do not appreciate them at all. And I also know that my mother abandoned her life back in Washington, D.C. because of some traumatic experience and the desire to stay with my father. Mildly deranged as it may sound, I'm kinda glad she chose to do that. But my name in itself shows how she misses her old job at the FBI—I don't think she's ever called me anything but Jack, unless she's mad at me. 

Of course, both the names 'Starling' and 'Lecter' are infamous, so we have the names that everyone else calls us—Aaron, Hannah, and Jacqueline Mardsen (that would be me). The world is so stupid that they buy it, too. I've lived in Florence until I was possibly seven or eight, then we moved to the West Coast so that I could have an American citizenship as well as most countries in Western Europe. That's the great thing about having my parents—Dad goes everywhere in style, so travelling has never sucked.

I didn't write this just to make some kind of rambling crap out of my childhood—there's actually a point to this. It's understood that Dad has fallen on and off of the Top Ten list, which he enjoys checking from time to time, but on some routine check that he and I were doing, we got a nasty shock.

"Let's see . . ." he murmured, scrolling with the mouse. "Seems I've moved down to number nine."

"Well have you done anything that should put the FBI on edge?" I asked smartly.

Dad gave me his amused smile. "Not recently."

"Then why would you even be on here?"

He stretched and stood up. "Point taken. Where exactly is your mother?"

I shrugged. "Reading, I think. She's been awfully into Dante lately, I've noticed."

"Better than those ridiculous mysteries she read earlier," he replied, heading to the living room in search of Mom.

I continued to read up on the other people who'd made the list since we'd last checked—nothing spectacular, most were wanted on three counts of murder and some rape and auto theft mixed in there. How did Dad only make nine? Since he'd last escaped from any sort of formal custody (to my knowledge, anyway), he'd murdered at least seven people, and none of the murders were cute. But I've come to terms with that. But the point is, Dad is at any given moment far more dangerous than any of the other people up to the person at number 4. Then it got interesting. I was just sitting innocently, reading the bios on the people that the government found more lethal than my father, when I caught sight of the person at number three. It was the only woman on the list—she had brown hair past her shoulders that had nice volume (kind of like my hair), dark brown eyes, and a dark spot on her cheekbone that stood for courage in some cultures. Except for the color of her eyes, I felt as though I was looking in a mirror ten years in my future.

__

Wanted, the title said. _Clarice Starling for multiple counts of capital murder._

I sat up straighter in my seat.

"Dad?" I called anxiously. "Dad, come here—you need to see this!"

After a minute or so, my dad stuck his head into the room. "A problem, Jacqueline?"

"Check out the number three chica," I told him, relinquishing the chair. 

Dad was quiet a moment, and after a moment of reading the screen, the calm expression on his face faded into a cold, closed-off anger.

"Clarice," he thundered.

Mom must have recognized his tone of voice, because she was in the room almost instantly.

Dad sat back in his chair and folded his arms, deep in thought, as Mom took in what the image on the screen meant.

"Jesus," she whispered. "How long has this been up?"

"It wasn't there last week," I put in.

"Then why now? And under whose _fucking jurisdiction _am I wanted for multiple counts of murder?" she demanded.

I tapped the phone number on the screen offering information. "There's an easy way to find out."

"No," my dad replied quietly. "There's more going on here that simple law enforcement—" 

I noticed the contempt in his voice at the phrase 'law enforcement.'

"—and we do nothing until I say so. I'll find out what I can over the next few days, but we all keep our eyes open and we are careful."

I bit my tongue for a minute. "Mom—do you have any idea who they could be talking about? That you supposedly murdered?"

Mom frowned. "No. The Evelda case was dropped, and that's only one that I can think of right now."

I sighed. "I think you guys should risk it and call information."

"Call _for_ information or call _with_ information?" asked Dad thinly. 

I narrowed my eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Pop."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

He sighed, too, but looked no less angry. "I mean that whatever the intentions for calling are, they will trace the call and try to dig up information on us to see if we are credible. And what if they find a picture of your mother or myself? Checkmate."

I folded my arms. "Well so long as no one knows exactly where Mom is—or you, considering that you're on that list, too—I think we're relatively safe."

"Don't get careless, though," he warned me. "Now more than ever, you have to keep your guard up."

"I think that's always been understood."

He took Mom's hand in his. "Good."

**

I watched my own life get more and more controlled as the days went by. I continued going to school—I hadn't missed a day in my life, not even if I was sick, and it would be suspicious if I all of the sudden just didn't show up. But as an understood agreement, Dad started driving me to classes in the Jaguar (which is a damn sight better that my old POS Ford Bronco).

Then, as though Mom suddenly being on the Top Ten list wasn't bad enough, my life got a lot more complicated.

It was a regular trip to school on a Monday morning; Dad driving the Jag and me in the passenger's seat with my hair pulled back and my goofy cat's eye sunglasses on with the top of the Jag down. We had to talk fairly loudly to be heard over the wind roaring and the engine—who the hell made engines so loud, anyway?

"What classes do you have today?" asked Dad over the noise.

"Nothing important—chemistry, theater, and Introduction to Criminal Justice," I replied in like, tightening my ponytail and swiping at renegade strands of hair. "Our teacher was a psychiatrist gone lawyer; you absolutely fascinate him."

"Really? My dossier is practically required reading in FBI training, I know that."

"Well don't get a big head over it," I laughed, tilting my head back to catch the wind. "It takes a unique perspective to find that flattering."

"No perspective is more unique than mine," he told me. "When do classes get out?"

"Two-fifteen."

"I want you out in front of this school at that exact time, don't dawdle and under absolutely no circumstances will you talk to anyone you don't know, I don't care if you're alone in the library or in the middle of lunch. The less time you spend separated from myself or your mother, the better." His voice was firm, and I could tell it wasn't open for discussion or compromise.

"Right. And you'll be here?" 

"Five minutes early."

"Early and overprotective," I sighed so that he couldn't hear me.

We pulled up in front of the school and Dad parked up front, but left the motor running.

"Now what are you doing after school?" he asked, politely conversational.

"Well, um, I think I'll come outside right after class and go home without talking to strangers," I offered.

"What a novelty." He gave me the small amused smile that I've always associated with him, and I started to open my door and get out.

The voice from behind me caught me off-guard. "Excuse me. Do you know what time it is?" 

I turned around in my seat, followed in turn by my father.

"Uhm—well, it's about—" I fumbled to look at the clock on the dash. "Five till eight."

"Thank you. Are you going inside?" he asked.

"Yeah, in a minute." I adjusted my skirt so that it wasn't so revealing and glanced at him over my sunglasses. "I don't think I've seen you around," I commented thinly. I don't think it came out like a compliment.

"I'm just visiting for the day," he replied. "And I haven't seen you around, either—I would have remembered."

I looked down and felt my face get a little warm. "Right." I unbuckled my seat belt and grabbed my things. "See you after school, Dad."

He gave me a look that said 'What did we just decide on strangers?' Well, I certainly didn't want the dude hanging over my shoulder while I was in the car with my father, so I figured I'd lose him in the halls or something. As I stepped out of the car, I removed my sunglasses and stashed them in my purse

The minute Dad couldn't hear our voices, the guy looked at me funny—I couldn't tell if he was checking me out or just looking at me. "I didn't catch your name," he commented.

"Oh—Jacqueline."

"Jacqueline," he repeated. "You know—that sounds familiar. Jacqueline . . . what's your last name? Starling?"

I froze. "Pardon me?" I stammered.

"Or is it Lecter?" he continued. "I can never remember."

"I—you must have me mistaken for someone else," I managed.

"No, I don't think so. See, you look disturbingly like a young Clarice Starling, but you have Hannibal Lecter's eyes," he replied, and quit walking so that he could look directly at me. "I guess that's your dad in the car, huh? He's pretty risky, being out in the open like that."

"Well—thanks, I guess, but I really think you've got me mixed up for another person. I do look like a lot of people," I insisted, looking back into the parking lot desperately. Jackpot—Dad was putting something in the trunk. "And I think you have my family mistaken for a bunch of dead people. Last I heard, Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter died seventeen years ago."

"I never did believe that," he replied. "So what's your first class?"

"Introduction to Criminal Justice. Um—I left something in my car," I lied. "Let me go back and get it real quick."

"Will you be coming back?" he asked with amusement. 

"Oh yeah. I'd like to tell you who _you_ look like," I replied.

__

A dead man.

I spun on my heel and walked back to the car quickly. "Dad!" I exclaimed. He looked up at me.

"Forget something?" he asked.

"Get this car the hell out of here," I told him in an undertone. "Something's not right."

He slid in behind the wheel and started the car, and I got in quickly. 

"How so?" he asked.

"Just get me out of here and I'll explain on the road," I snapped with sudden anger. Dad gave me a funny look but did so anyway.

"Pardon my short patience, but why the urgency?" he queried at the edge of the parking lot.

"That guy knew who I was," I gritted. "He knew who you were, too." I glanced back behind us—the dude was on the cell phone. "Shit," I muttered. "He's probably calling the cops."

"Jacqueline, tell me exactly what he said to you," Dad told me, going straight into psychiatrist-mode. "Don't omit anything, however stupid or trivial, from the moment you got out of this car to the moment you turned your back on him."

"Uh, he asked me what my name was, and I only told him my first name. Then he said—and I quote—'Jacqueline . . . that sounds familiar. And what's your last name? Starling?' So I said, 'Pardon me?', and he said, 'Or is it Lecter? I never can remember.' And he told me I look disturbingly like Mom, but I have your eyes. Only he used both of your names. I BS'd him and said he'd mistaken me for someone else, and that Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter had died seventeen years ago, which led him to say he'd never believed that. Then he asked if that was you, as in 'your father' in the car, and that you were brave being out in the open like that. So I made something up and said I'd left something in the car, and here I am. Absolutely certain that we're all screwed," I added as Dad pulled onto the highway that led home.

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?" he asked harshly.

"Yeah."

"Then you'll point him out to me later on, I take it."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Not with what you have in mind, Dad."

"Just checking for your approval. I, too, would recognize him again."

"Yes, let's make this whole problem as positively illegal as we can," I snapped. "Your disguise and Mom's are totally foolproof, right?"

"Nothing false is totally foolproof," he replied.

"It's good enough to last an FBI inspection, right?"

"If it's a stupid agent."

"Then why don't we call a stupid agent and bust him for harassment?" I demanded.

"Because he wasn't harassing you, he was stating a fact that we need to keep quiet," Dad snapped. "And what would we tell a Federal Bureau of Investigations agent?" Again, the noticeable contempt. "Would we say anything, or would we just sit and wait for him to recognize myself and Clarice?"

"Fine, I didn't think it through. But is it any smarter that serving the guy up for dinner on the good china?"

"It's only foolish if you're inexperienced," he replied without a hint of joking about him. He was deadly serious about fixing this guy good with some parsley or whatever else he chose to use as seasoning.

"Jesus, Daddy. You wonder why I'm a vegetarian?"

"You're not a vegetarian. You eat Burger King like a second nature."

"Burger King isn't real meat," I shot back. "Didn't having a wife and a daughter give you any sense of mercy?" Even though he and my mother can't legally get married, in this fake identity they've been married since Mom was twenty-six. I sighed. "I can't believe we're having this discussion. This was not in the job description of 'normal teenage girl.'"

"Who said teenage girls were normal? Especially given the circumstances to your conception," he added.

I pinched the bridge of my nose to ward off my headache. "Please spare me the details. And you know what I meant," I told him. "I mean under the circumstances that my father is a _retired_ cannibal and my mother was an FBI agent before she ran off with you. Even given all that, I deserve some type of normalcy in my life, and eating the first guy who causes trouble in a very long time does not—and I repeat does _not_—qualify as normal—_ouch!_" I exclaimed at the end of my rant when I felt a sharp stinging in my ear. I put my hand up to the little tip of it gingerly, and when I pulled away it was stained with blood. "What the—" I glanced around in search of what could have caused it, only to swear heavily. Great. Someone had shot my ear.

"Language," Dad warned.

"Worry about language later. We're being followed," I told him.

He cursed in turn. "Are you certain?"

"There's a guy in a car that doesn't have a license plate hanging out his window holding a gun. Yeah, I'm certain we're being followed."

Before he could even reply, the windshield on my side shattered with a round little hole right in the center. Like a spider and its web.

"Jacqueline," he told me urgently. "Slide down in your seat, below the headrest."

I did as I was told, and Dad followed in like while still keeping his eyes on the road and flooring it.

"Stay out of sight, but reach under the seat for me," he continued authoritatively. "There's a case under there—get it."

I fumbled around clumsily, and felt my fingers close around something hard—a box or something. I pulled it out and opened it.

"What the hell do you carry a fucking gun for?!" I exclaimed.

"Times like these."

I put a hand on the door of the car to readjust myself and let out a sharp exclamation of pain—blood began running from a hole in between my thumb and forefinger, the only part of me I'd left exposed for some minutes. Thinking on instinct, I tore off a strip from the bottom of my shirt and wrapped it around my hand.

Dad glanced over at the white material that was quickly turning red on my hand, and the speedometer quickly jumped to well over 150.

"Okay, we're going to get a speeding ticket."

"Is the bullet still in your hand?" he asked. I didn't even want to know how angry he really was.

"No, it went right through. I think it's embedded in the rearview mirror." Sure enough, there was a spider web in the glass of the mirror.

"Darling, I want you to use your good hand and keep the car going straight," Dad ordered. "And give me the gun."

"No way. Only if you promise you'll just shoot their tires out."

"I'm not worried about their tires." 

"Then make _them _worried about their tires."

He snatched the gun from my hand and gave me a totally serious look. "I'm going to let to of the wheel, and either you keep us on the road or you worry about what I intend to do with this gun," he told me firmly. "It's your call." 

And he really did let go of the wheel, going over 150 mile per hour.

"Dad—SHIT! Are you crazy?" I exclaimed, grabbing the steering wheel as the car jerked once.

"Keep your arm relatively down, or they'll shoot that, too," was all he said as he turned around in his seat, the little gun in his hand. 

I set my jaw angrily and tried my hardest to concentrate only on the road, but I flinched once as the gun went off. Twice. Three times. Then, at the fourth shot, there was a funny pop and then a delayed crash.

Dad turned back and took the wheel with one hand, then took my shaking hand in his, the gun set aside.

"So was that all four tires, or three people and a tire?" I asked coldly.

"Would you have preferred it to be one shot from me and one shot from them? Because as you've already been shot twice, how many more shots would it have taken them to get it right? I prefer it the way I did it."

"So what was your final count?"

Dad sighed. "One tire."

I put my chin in my hand angrily, then let out a yelp when I realized it was my injured hand. The cloth around my hand was already soaked in blood, and now it was smeared across my chin. Peachy. 

Dad squeezed my hand reassuringly, in reply to my shaking hand, before releasing my hand and giving me my cell phone. "Call your mother."

"And tell her what? That someone tried to kill us?" I demanded.

"Tell her to go to the air port and fly out to Florence immedietly," he replied.

I dialed home and waited for her to pick up.

"Hello?" Mom finally said.

"Mom!" I exclaimed.

"Hi, Jack. Shouldn't you be in school?" she asked suspiciously.

"Hah. Not if I didn't think that someone would shoot the brains out of my head for the world to see."

"Wonderful allusion," Dad muttered dryly.

"What on earth happened?" Mom exclaimed.

"Some guy at school knew who I was. As in he knew who Dad was, too, so I got back in the car and we just left. Then we got tailed on the highway, and I don't know where exactly we're going. But don't try driving before the customs gate," I added. "There's a wreck and a bunch of dead people."

"Three."

"See? You admit it."

"Now that you don't have the gun."

"I'm still not laughing."

"Honey?"

"Sorry, delayed argument. We're okay."

"The airport?" insisted Dad.

"Oh yeah. Mom, Dad says that you need to go to the airport now and get on the first flight to Florence."

"We're going back to Florence?" she demanded suddenly. "We can't go back to Florence."

"Hold on." I put my thumb over the microphone on the cell. "She says we can't go back to Florence."

"We don't have a choice."

"He says we don't have a choice."

"The hell we do. Try Buenos Aires or something."

"Hey, Dad, how about Buenos Aires?"

"I have things in Florence that I need."

"He has things in Florence that he needs."

Mom started to reply, but I cut her off. "Do you want to talk to him yourself? I don't want to play Monkey in the Middle or anything,"

"Yes. Put him on."

I handed Dad the phone and sighed. From the look on Dad's face the minute he put the phone to his ear, he was getting an earful from Mom. I caught bits and pieces of conversation, but only from his end of the discussion.

" . . . I _know _that. I thought about that when I decided on Florence . . . well he's not there anymore, is he? What are you afraid of in Florence, Clarice? Why the adamant desire to avoid it?"

I wished desperately that I could hear Mom's reply to that, but the noise on the road blocked out everything but my father's voice. 

"That was a long time ago. Keep that in mind . . . then we'll meet at the longest layover." Silence on my dad's part, and a sudden frown. "I see. Well that should be interesting. Don't worry about it."

He hung up and slowed the car down a lot as we approached the exit for the airport. "So are we all leaving now?" I asked.

"No, I need to pick some things up at the storage unit. You're meeting your mother at the terminal of the next flight from Vancouver to Florence. I'll meet you in Baltimore."

"You're leaving?" I exclaimed. 

"Only until Baltimore," he replied. "Once you get inside, wait for Clarice and _absolutely do not _talk to whoever seems nice."

"I know."

"You said that fifteen minutes ago."

"This time I really do know."

Yeah, right. Whatever.

*

If I hadn't tactfully pointed out to my father that weapons were not allowed in airport terminals, I probably could have gotten arrested for carrying a concealed weapon or something. He'd tried to insist on me taking the gun, but I refused on the above grounds.

I hovered over by the gate I was departing on, looking for Mom anxiously. All of the sudden, people had started looking like they had a gun in their pockets, and I could swear that a few people looked at me twice suspiciously. 

Or I could just be getting paranoid.

I continued scanning the crowd for Mom when I jumped out of my skin—someone had put a hand on my shoulder.

"Mom?" I asked, turning around. My ease faded as I looked into the face of a total stranger. "Who—"

A hand clamped down over my mouth firmly, and pulled me backwards into a corner. "Don't say anything," the stranger told me. "Just listen. You and your folks are in a shitload of trouble, and no one has the grace to lend you a hand—no one in a position of power, anyway. But I know someone who will respond to a call for help."

"Mmmph," I said. 

"Sorry." The hand disappeared from my mouth.

"Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want with me?" I demanded.

"My name is Judy. That's all you need to know. Your mom is a good person, and she deserves a chance. Neither she nor your father will think about accepting help, and if it wasn't for your mom I wouldn't have anything to do with Lecter anyway." A piece of paper was shoved into my hand, and the grip on me was released. "You watch these people. If I hadn't known the person who killed him, I'd think they would have killed my brother-in-law when they had what they wanted."

Then there was no one behind me.

I looked down at the paper in my hand—it was an envelope. Inside it was a phone number and a plane ticket to—huh? Washington D, C.? What the hell did I need in D, C.?

I studied the phone number—it wasn't local. It had what I, as an FBI agent's daughter, could place as a Washington area code. I don't know how I know these things. Maybe I was born with it. (Right. And my father was born with a human appetite. Whatever.)

I stashed it in my pocket for later reference and continued to scan the crowd for Mom.

"Jack!" I heard her call. I turned to where the call came from, and waved at Mom with a sigh of relief.

"Hey. Guess you made good time."

She grinned anxiously. "Yeah. So, to Baltimore?"

"Sure. That's where we meet Dad, right?"

"Yep. And then to Florence."

"What's in Florence?" I asked. "I mean, why don't you want to go back?"

Mom narrowed her eyes, trying to look like she was pretending to be irritated, but I caught her. "Nothing. It just doesn't feel right."

"When did you ever go by gut feeling?" I teased.

"Just once," she muttered, looking out at the departing planes. Then she snapped back to reality. "And I'd do it again no matter what," she added firmly.

Hmm. I would chew on that for a while.

"Wait here while I get some coffee," Mom told me. "Do you want anything?"

"Hot chocolate."

She nodded. "Then I'll be back."

I leaned against a phone booth, the envelope burning a hole in my pocket. Common sense told me to throw it out, and I reached in my pocket to do so. I didn't really think we would be in any danger once we got to Florence, and besides—this was an airport. It wasn't easy to get any sort of dangerous weapon into one.

Mom paid for the two cups about a hundred yards away, and my fingers closed around the ticket to Washington and the phone number I was supposed to call. I reached over to the trashcan—

And watched coffee start exiting the cups in two neat little arcs through two neat little holes. Mom looked down in frank surprise, and then it clicked in my own mind.

"_Run_!" I exclaimed, as two shots whizzed through the air by her.

"Meet me in the plane!" she shouted as she dropped the cups and fell into FBI mode, slipping out of sight. Then I noticed the spots of blood on the floor where Mom had been standing, and got the hell out of sight.

I decided then that I ought to call that number. It was a subconscious decision, really, because if my conscious mind had come up with that, the first image I would have gotten was of my dad grounding me till I could fly. Literally fly, not just TWA.

The grim realization that I had just been shot at once leaving my own school was bright in my own mind, and I knew that Dad would go to whatever lengths it took to not only keep me and Mom safe, but also to keep himself out of custody. That had always been a cold fact in my mind—the idea that my father had lived in hell for eight years and adamantly refused to return. One speeding ticket could lead to recognition, and that would tear my small family apart before it could be stopped. Dad will never let himself live in an asylum like a trophy. And that's no doubt what the people who I saw at school wanted—to turn in my father, give my mother over to some lesser authorities, and who knows where I would end up until I was eighteen. And maybe whoever had this number was worth lending a hand. I didn't want my family destroyed, and if Dad wouldn't see to it, then I would.

I picked up a payphone, slipped in the needed coins, and punched in the phone number with shaking hands.

__

Ring.

Answer, whoever the hell you are.

__

Ring.

How many rings can you handle till you lose it?

__

Ring.

How many rings can _I _handle till you lose it?

"Hello?" asked a gruff male voice. I almost passed out—I thought I'd seen Mom at the phone beside me.

"Hel—hello?" I managed. "Who is this?"

I could tell he wanted to know the same thing. "Crawford. Jack Crawford." 

I almost had a heart attack. "_Crawford_?" I exclaimed.

"Who is this?" he demanded.

"I—someone gave me this number and said you could help me."

"Who?"

"Some lady. Her name was Judy."

"What kind of help do you need?"

My mind was reeling. "Uh—someone is trying to kill me." Small fib. I could explain later.

"Who are you?"

"Jacqueline Marster."

" . . . I suppose I could meet you somewhere."

"Where is somewhere?"

"How about in front of the White House at noon?"

"Can we do two? It's kind of a long way."

"Fine. I assume that since you have my phone number, you know who I am."

"I can guess. But please don't bring a police escort or anything. I'm sixteen years old, okay?"

"I don't see why you're worried about police. I'm FBI."

"No you're not. You retired when Clarice Starling disappeared." I bit my tongue at the tone of voice I used. Hannibal Lecter's daughter, my ass. "Sorry. I didn't mean that maliciously."

"Understood. Two this afternoon?"

"Yeah. I'll be there—I really do need your help." I hung up, and realized that I was going to be sick. What the fuck was I thinking, making an appointment with Jack Crawford? The minute he found out who my father was, he'd call the real cops and I would have written my own epitaph.

Or maybe he'd help for my mom's sake. When he found out that my mom was probably in jeopardy, of course. 

I was shaking as I read the information on my ticket—fuck, shit, I was so screwed, my flight left in five minutes. Then, once I knew what I was hearing, I realized that it was boarding and Mom should be getting there any minute. I hauled ass to my gate and raced to a window seat, being the weirdo that I am.

I took repeated deep breaths, in hopes of calming my jangling nerves. I'd never so openly defied anything my parents had forbidden, I knew absolutely nothing certain about the incident earlier, except for the fact that I had a tiny piece of my right ear missing, a hole in my hand, and the knowledge that I would have been dead had there been any different circumstances. 

I fainted.

*

It wasn't a big problem, passing out on an airplane, because everyone thought I was asleep, but the disorientation when I finally came to was intent, and helped none by the fact that a stewardess was shaking me awake anxiously. All I saw was her blue eyes, and I was totally convinced that my dad was threatening to ground me till I was eighty, and then I realized that someone was just trying to wake me up. I jumped awake in horror, then gasped for breath. My panic from earlier obviously had not subsided.

"Miss?" she asked. "We've arrived at the D, C. airport. Is that your stop?"

I caught my breath. "Yes, it is. Thank you."

I stood up shakily and wiped sweat from my brow, then stumbled to the aisle. "Oh, by the way—how far is it to the White House from here?" I asked.

"Oh, no more than a block. It's a lovely walk," she told me. I checked her nametag.

"Thank you, Andrea," I replied politely, regaining my head. My feet didn't shake quite so bad as I walked out of the plane.

One block. I could handle a little stroll.

I can handle strolls, I told myself as I continued to walk. I can handle this. It's nothing. It's a nice, crowded place no less than a mile from the president—there's nothing to worry about. Who could recognize you? The only two places you've ever lived are Florence and Victoria, BC. 

Jack Crawford is a very easy person to spot—he's too distinguished to just sit on a park bench near the White House. Which is how I spotted him so easily.

I sauntered up to him like I had no worried and sat down next to him.

"It took me a while," I admitted.

"Where were you coming from?" he asked, not looking at me.

"The airport in Vancouver."

"Jesus. You really need to talk to me, don't you?"

Crawford looked at me, then—and stared. I lowered my eyes sheepishly, hoping I didn't look so much like my mom that he could tell who I was.

"Before I ask for your help, I need to come clean with you. I lied to you over the phone about my name. It's not Marster."

He raised an eyebrow. "So what is it?"

"You have to promise you won't call the cops on me, otherwise my whole family is screwed. Namely my mother." I added that for good effect.

"Who are you really, if not Jacqueline Marster?" he asked.

I swallowed. This was peachy, he'd arrest Dad anyway. "No, I am Jacqueline. My parents aren't really married, so I hyphenated my last name. Jacqueline Starling-Lecter."

He choked on the coffee he was drinking—mocha with some cinnamon. 

"Say _what_?"

"You heard, otherwise your coffee wouldn't have gone down the wrong way."

"You're . . ."

"Clarice Starling's daughter," I muttered, so that he alone could hear me.

"And . . ."

I said nothing.

"Hannibal Lecter's daughter," he murmured. "Jesus Christ." 

"Far from it," I sighed. "Listen, I'm not supposed to be here. If either of my parents knew I was here, I'd be confined to a very small portion of my house that had no windows and allowed no contact with the outside world, so I don't want to mess anything up with this. I can't ask you to get any sort of protection for my family, namely because that would probably include some type of solitary confinement and it's not like my dad would appreciate your help anyway. What I want to know is who tried to kill me this morning, how they knew who I was, and then why they tried to kill my mother in the airport. I think you can help me with that, since it's not too much and I'm not personally a fugitive."

He frowned. "I don't know how much help I can be. The only recommendation I have for you would be to enter a witness hostile, but I can't make any guarantees about your family."

"I know. But if you could make some, would you?" I asked pointedly. I didn't want a potential favor, I wanted honesty. "Someone tried to kill me this morning, Mr. Crawford. And then someone shot my mother in the airport in Vancouver—I honestly don't know if she's alive or not. If she made it to the plane, she and my dad are in Baltimore trying to figure out where the hell I am, and I bet money someone tries to kill them there, too, so I hope they get on that damn plane and get out of America." I pulled out my cell phone from my purse and turned it on. "I should probably keep this ready, too, in case Mom or Dad tries to call me.

"Asking for more than information from you would be asking you to break the law, Mr. Crawford, and I don't want to do that."

Jack Crawford struck me then as an old, tired person who had left a stressful line of work when one of his particular favorite agents went mysteriously MIA, and he was again being asked to help her.

"I knew Clarice before she was even real FBI. Back then and even now, I would break every rule in the handbook if it meant she could live in peace. She was never at peace in the FBI, because she was so bright and made many smart people look stupid in front their superiors." He smiled bitterly and shook his head. "I tried to give her cases that would interest and challenge her—I tried that too early on, when she could still be spooked and impressioned. I sent her right into a monster's den. Even after we had what was needed to capture Buffalo Bill, I could tell Lecter got to her. But when she told me that he contacted her at her graduation from the Academy, I'd be damned if I didn't know right off the bat that somehow, in her own accidental way, she'd gotten to him, too. Everything that has gone wrong in her life went wrong because I used her like bait once."

"Yeah," I sighed, "but when you think about it, some things went right because of that, too."

Crawford pinched the bridge of his nose. "I guess you're not the person to tell about my regrets on sending her to interview Hannibal Lecter."

"I can't complain."

"And you know what he does for a living, right?"

"He's retired," I replied firmly. "But don't think he wouldn't do what he had to do to keep me and my mom safe."

Oh, brilliant, Jack, make the man think you approve.

"That's not to say I approve of it, though," I replied. "I know it's pointless and stupid, but I'm a vegetarian."

He laughed dryly. "Well that's a comfort. Never thought his daughter would be a vegetarian."

"Yep. So would you have expected me to have horns and a tail?"

"Something like that."

"I have a pitchfork at home."

"You're a lot like your mom," he told me kindly.

"Thanks. I just don't intend to fall in love with a serial killer."

"It's appreciated. Can I buy you a drink? Vancouver is a long flight from here."

I frowned. "So is Florence. Sure, I'd like to get something."

We walked in amiable silence to the nearest coffee place, and I think Jack Crawford felt a little bit like he was doing Clarice Starling one last favor. 

*

I know my dad hates him something fierce, but Jack wasn't a horrible and self-serving person like I'd thought he would be. He actually seemed very . . . I don't know. Smart, in a cunning way. Ironically, sort of like Dad. Only (in that daddy's girl opinion of mine) my dad is extremely intelligent and will use his intelligence to be cunning. I may look and eat like my mom, but apparently I think like Dad. Without that murder-like streak.

In the coffee shop, I put my forehead down beside my hot chocolate on the table. "You have no idea how much trouble I'm in," I groaned at the clock ticked nearer to four. "God. The longer it takes them to call, the more I'm afraid they're dead, but I know that if they call, _I'm_ dead."

Crawford took a sip of a new cup of coffee. "Can you tell me exactly what happened in the instance of someone trying to kill you?"

"Yeah, sure. Dad was dropping me off at school and some guy came up to me and asked what time it was, then offered to escort me to class—sort of. He _would_ _not_ go away, and I didn't want Dad grilling him—Jesus, you know what I mean, and I _don't _mean propane-and-charcoal—so I got out of the car and I was gonna ditch him in the halls. But then he told me that he knew who I was, and that's not a good thing in the sense that you're the only other person outside my family who knows that now. So I told him I left something in the car, and we left real quick. But on the highway, someone shot at us—hence my wounded ear and wrapped hand, and so Dad blew out their tire. Slowed them down." Yeah, once he killed three people, but I didn't need Crawford to know _that_. "So we made plans to amscray real fast, and Mom and I were supposed to meet Dad in Baltimore so we could really leave. But then Mom and I got cornered at the airport, and she told me to get to the plane and she'd meet me. Someone shot her on the way, but I don't know how bad it was, and I don't know if she made it to the plane," I finished. "So I called you and here I am."

"Here you are," he agreed. "Are you certain your father is—ah, retired?"

"Yes." I made sure there wasn't a trace of doubt in my voice, because I didn't doubt it.

"Considering the fact that both of your parents are on America's Most Wanted, I can't do anything that would draw attention to them or myself—I'm not in good standing with the FBI. But I suppose, since I know your mother didn't commit any of the crimes she's being publicly indited for, I could do some underground work that would keep her out of hot water. There's an FBI investigation open," he continued, "that is searching for a group of individuals who number about seventy-five, who are an of Italian mafia sort of thing. About eleven years after your father escaped from state custody, he killed a man in Florence by the name of Pazzi—used to be a real big detective over there, until he was cited for falsifying evidence in a serial case. His career sort of flushed after that, and what few people know was that he was in the process of turning your father over to his only surviving victim, Mason Verger, when he was brutally murdered. His body was found hanging from the top of a building with his remains hanging down to the street."

"That sounds like Dad, yeah."

Crawford continued. "He was counting on the reward Verger offered him—three million dollars, U.S.—to get him out of his funk, but Verger wasn't his only source of income at the time. He'd fallen in bad with the mafia, owed them more money than even Verger could give him. They were closing in on his head when he died, and so while some people thought that the man he'd falsely indited for murder killed him, everyone else thought the mafia had finally nailed him. No one missed him except for his wife. The reward for capturing your father still stands, but the one for your mother has gone up to over six million dollars."

"And these people in particular want to kill me and my family because . . ."

"I'm getting there. In killing Pazzi, they feel that Lecter personally insulted them. They had their mark on him, and the only people who could kill Pazzi would be personally hired by the mafia, not some American serial killer. Ordinarily, they would have been satisfied with the sum they could get for turning Lecter over to the authorities, but in another example of how twisted they really are, they got word that your mother was in contact with Pazzi the night he died and think that she was trying to get him to Lecter discreetly. In reality, Clarice was warning him away from Lecter, but since they consider her an accomplice, they want her dead. And her reward is sizably larger than your father's, so it would cover most of Pazzi's debts and leave some spending cash."

"For what?" I sneered. "A pole to stick her head on? Do they really intend to fly to America and turn her over?"

"No. The Italian parliament is insulted by the fact that two Americans were involved in the death of a native detective—" 

"That's bullshit. You said he was a patsy to them."

"I didn't, but he was. The reward in America for her is only two million, but the Italian mafia is in a bit of a financial snitch, so they're playing it safe and rich by turning her over dead, and I think that they're hoping to get lucky and catch Lecter in the process."

"Great. Peachy. Looks like they've hit the States and Canada, huh?" 

"I'd say so. You should probably change out that wrap," he added, motioning to my hand.

"Oh yeah."

"You don't talk like you were from in Canada," he pointed out.

"I wasn't. I had vacations every few months to London, and so I picked up an accent."

"It's not the movie-type English I've heard."

"No, it's sort of like Eliza in _My Fair Lady_. Well, some of the friendliest people I met spent a lot of time with me, and they had that twang to their English. Yeah, London was nice, but I liked living in Florence much better," I sighed distantly.

"You lived in Florence? Jesus, that took guts on Lecter's part."

"I can see where you think that." Then my blood ran cold. _Florence_. Oh, shit. Oh, I needed to talk to Mom and Dad—shit, how much worse could this get.

"You okay?"

"No, my parents are flying to Florence from Baltimore!"

And then, like some kind of sign, the cell phone beside me flashed its screen in a signal that someone was calling. I'd had the ringer off so that I could fly.

"Who is it?" asked Crawford before I could hit 'answer.'

"That would be a very pissed off dad. Please don't make this bad for yourself, okay? He'd like nothing more than an excuse to . . ." I fell short and hit the button. "Please, please, please don't kill me," I began.

"Do me a favor and tell me _exactly_ where you are," came Dad's calm voice. I was in so much more trouble than I'd counted on . . .

"Hi, Dad," I said meekly, feeling about two inches tall. "OH! God, hear me out real quick—don't go to Florence!"

"Did you have prior appointments? Say, with the only room you'll see till you're thirty?"

"Funny, Daddy," I snapped.

"I didn't think so."

"No, I mean it—I found out who tried to kill us today! It's the Italian mafia or something—some guy you did in a long time ago, Pazzi? He owed them money and they were going to kill him, but something like you did it first . . . I don't know, so now you've got a price on your head," I burst out before I could hear any more about how badly I was grounded.

"Thank you for taking the spotlight off of how much trouble you're in," he replied smoothly, his voice never raising a bit.

"Dad . . ."

"I don't want to hear it," he told me shortly. "You don't even realize how close your mother came to being killed today—"

"But—"

"And by being separate from myself and her, you've put yourself in twice the danger you were in before. Either you tell me exactly where you are, or I find out. And you don't want me to do that."

"Did you totally ignore what I told you?" I exclaimed. "If you go to Florence, it'll be like walking into the lion's den!"

"And how exactly did Daniel fare in the lion's den, Jacqueline?" he asked coldly.

"Daniel had visions, okay? And he had a little help from up there, and I don't think we've got them on our party list. You have to listen to me—"

"To the best of my knowledge, anyone who wants anything from us is in Vancouver."

"How do you know they didn't follow us to Baltimore or D, C.?" I demanded, then smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand.

Jack Crawford was watching me talk as though he should be recording the conversation. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"Hang on, Dad." I covered the mike with my thumb. "Is that smart? I didn't think so. How much hot water would you get in for that?"

"Jacqueline. You _didn't _fly to Washington, D, C.," I could hear Dad seething from his end. I've never heard him genuinely angry until that point.

"You need to understand that I found someone who will help us," I insisted. "He knew enough to let me know NOT to let you go to Florence!"

"Give me names," he ordered.

"Hell no."

"Then put him on."

"I'll tell you what I told him—hell no."

"What are you trying to hide?" he asked with a new note in his voice. "Or should I say . . . who?"

"Shut up," I growled. "It's not your place to hassle me on my own personal choices, okay? I think we fare better with his help."

"I'll decide that."

"No, it's my decision. You want to run and hide in Florence, Dad—I want to take care of this."

"I am not _hiding_ in Florence, Jacqueline. Nor am I running from anything."

"Jacqueline—"

"Please, Mr. Crawford, give me a minute." Then, in light of my second Freudian slip, I kicked myself in the ass silently and waited anxiously for my father to catch it.

"Crawford?" he repeated finally. "Crawford—_Jack Crawford?_"

I could hear an exclamation in the background. "What about Jack Crawford?" came Mom's voice. 

"Yes, what about him?" asked Dad, calm once again.

"Nothing," I mumbled. 

"Why don't you let me talk to him? It's been so long since he and I had words."

"What did I say about hell no? I don't need this kind of pressure, Dad, and letting you talk to him is not something I need."

"Let me decide that," Crawford put in. "I want to talk to the son of a bitch."

"NO WAY. This is to both of you, because I know you can both hear me, so ABSOLUTELY NOT. I don't trust either of you on the phone with each other, so I'm just going to tell you _don't go to Florence!"_

"Well it's too late, because we're on one of those ridiculous airplane phones."

"Goddamnit! Why can't you call me ahead of time?" I demanded. "And why do you have to make a show out of some Italian detective! Can't you do conventional stuff, like gardening or music?"

"Don't make this my fault, Jacqueline."

"Dad! Crazy as all this may come off as to you—"

"He's seen it all before. Probably done most of it, too," put in Jack so that my father could hear.

"Tell _Jackie_ that I still remember how much effort he put into my arrest," Dad snarled.

"Why you—" if I hadn't been on the phone and Dad had been there in person, I think Jack Crawford would have lunged at him.

"You can both hear each other," I snapped.

"Go on," Crawford told me. "I personally want to hear what you have to say. Unlike some creatures that call themselves human fathers."

"Don't criticize my parenting skills, Jack Crawford."

"DAD! WILL YOU STOP IT!" I exploded. "You're not taking this seriously—someone seriously tried to kill us both this morning, and then someone tried to kill Mom half an hour later! And you're walking right into it like it's nothing—you going to Florence is like—I don't know, like—a fly heading toward a bug zapper! You can ground me all you want for calling on Jack Crawford for help, but if he's willing to help then I think I deserve to let him!"

"Are you worried about my safety, Jacqueline?" he asked, finally not angry or malicious.

"Yes, I am. Jeez looize, I don't want to grow up by myself."

"Don't worry. I am anything but conventional, and far from worried about what the Mafia thinks they can do to me."

"I know that. But that doesn't make me or Mom conventional."

"Don't worry about your mother, either. If she wants something . . ."

I saw Jack Crawford pay close attention to this.

"She gets it. And if she can't, then it gets her. But one way or another, she ends up with what she wants."

I frowned. I didn't quite grasp what he meant by that, and I don't think I was supposed to, but Jack certainly did. He sighed heavily and took a sip of coffee.

"If your mother wants to survive, then she will. Jack Crawford did not train fools in his office."

I bit back a smile. Maybe Dad could still come around—in that way where he never would. But oh well.

"But I don't want you in Washington D, C.. Is that understood?" 

"Where the hell am I _supposed _to go?"

"Florence, where I can watch over you myself."

"Hey, discuss that with someone who has money. This ticket was free. Some chick named Judy gave it to me."

"I'll make arrangements."

"Right. Bye, Daddy. Tell Mom I said hi."

I hung up before anything else could go wrong. I was going back to Florence. Great.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Crawford. He's not always like that," I sighed.

"He is to me. And you can call me Jack," he added.

"That could get confusing, Jack. I go by that name too."

"Do you still want my help, or has your father convinced you otherwise?" Jack asked.

"Do I look crazy? I'm in enough trouble already; I can afford to get into some more."

"Do you have anywhere to stay?"

"No. I came here on blind faith and a fainting spell in the airplane. Otherwise I think I would have gotten off before it was too late. Why?"

"Because I need one more person to do this, and she was a good friend of Clarice's when she . . . ran off. Anyway, I think she has room for you. Tell her Jack Crawford sent you."

I laughed nervously. "What kind of movie promo is this?"

*

AN: Tell me if it sucks. I've finished it, but you guys are deciding whether I post it or not. And be honest. Later!


	2. Jack is Quick

Hi again

Hi again! Thanks for the reviews . . . they're all good so far . . . Yay! Here's the next part, it's noticeably shorter than the other one. I wanted to post it as soon as possible, but I haven't been home and I figured I'd left you hanging long enough. So here 's the next chapter, and I think I'm going to change the name from "Jack be Nimble" because I wanted that to be the first chapter's name, and the second to be "Jack be Quick" or something ridiculously snazzy like that. Hmmph. But oh well, I guess I have to take some grief sometimes. Here I go, and BTW: I don't own them. Just Jack. (That was a quote from Will and Grace, when Jack always says "Just Jack!" and does the hand thing. I love that show!!) 

**

I knocked on the door of a nice house in a nice neighborhood tentatively. I had no idea whose house this was, but I hoped (in a similar fashion to what I'd hoped with Jack Crawford) that she wouldn't arrest me or try and arrest my parents, who were on their way to Florence—damn them. 

I shifted on my feet anxiously, waiting for the door to open. I couldn't hear any footsteps coming, and I peered through the window to see if there was anyone home. I was pretty sure the owner was there, because there was an older Mustang parked out front, but that didn't change the fact that no one was answering.

I took that time to think about what to tell this woman—Jack had told me that I had the choice of telling her who I was, and I didn't want more than one person knowing that, so I voted against saying anything unless it was necessary. I chose to go by Marster instead of Mardsen because my family is recorded in Vancouver and Victoria with photographs (which was stupid, I've decided in retrospect), and if this chica decided to run a background check on the last name Mardsen, she could easily recognize my parents. I made up Marster on the phone with Jack Crawford and decided it was a safe fallback—there was no information to be found on me with that last name, so there was no information on my parents, either.

*Sigh* But on second thought, if Jack was recruiting her to help me, then she'd have to find out about my family eventually. So why lie to her? Other than the fact that she may have been different from Jack Crawford in the sense that she really _would _arrest my parents.

O the problems borne of having a cannibal as a father.

This was so very peachy that I thought my head would explode.

I snapped right out of my decision-making when the door opened and I was face-to-face with a strikingly beautiful African-American woman in jeans and a T-shirt.

"Can I help you?" she asked frankly.

"Uh—yeah, Jack Crawford said you could give me a place to stay . . ."

I was sure I was going about this the wrong way.

She frowned. "I haven't heard from Jack Crawford in years."

"Yeah. I just talked to him earlier—he's supposed to call you in a while." I continued to let my mind race nervously.

"Who are you?" she asked, wary at the mention of Jack Crawford.

"Uh . . ." Jacqueline Marster. Jacqueline Marster. Jacqueline Marster. I can't do this. "Jack—I don't need my last name quite yet."

"Ardelia Mapp," she told me. "I guess you can come in. We'll discuss this inside."

Her house was neat, very well-kept and tidy—obviously she was single. But I was curious as to a ring she wore on a chain around her neck—simple gold with emeralds encrusted in it. Classy, but understated. Was it from a boyfriend or someone like that? I stored it away for future reference.

She sat me down at the table and went to fix us some tea. "So how old are you?" she asked.

"Sixteen, just shy of seventeen."

"And where are you from?"

"Victoria, British Columbia. I lived in Florence before that," I replied.

"Fancy. What's the accent?"

"English with a twang."

"England too?"

"Only on vacation. Dad liked Florence better than anywhere else. What about yourself?"

Ardelia Mapp looked at me. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. Jack Crawford has a lot of faith in you."

"More like he's probably out of options. What did you need with Crawford, anyway?"

"I'm in a bit of a snitch with the Mafia in Italy, and he's lending a hand."

"What a group to fall in with," she sighed. "They should just leave people the hell alone."

"Care to elaborate?"

"I've been working this case since it first came up, and they're about to pull me off for personal reasons. But I think that these people are looking for someone who doesn't want to be found. If I could make the Mafia realize that, life would be so much easier."

"So who are they looking for?"

"My ex-partner. It's all so complicated. I'd explain it to you, but it was before your time."

"You make yourself sound old."

"I _feel_ old."

"Who was your partner?" I asked, taking a sip of tea.

"Clarice Starling," she replied quietly. But I could tell from the look in her eyes that she was only quiet because she didn't want to scream for hours on end. At my mother's name, I choked on my tea.

"Oh. What happened to Clarice? In your opinion, anyway," I added, recovering quickly.

"It's not my place to say. She made a decision and I guess she's living with it."

"What decision was that?"

"To run off with a mass murderer."

"Hannibal the Cannibal," I murmured, smiling inwardly at the nickname Dad hated so much. But it was awfully catchy, so I could see why he couldn't get rid of it. "I read about that in class. Hannibal Lecter is a textbook case at school."

"He was never textbook. The textbook says that murderers don't run off with FBI agents."

"Maybe he's only part textbook. And you're on his case, right?"

"Like corduroy on a hemorrhoid."

"Why? Do you think that stopping this Mafia business will lead you to Hannibal Lecter, and through him to Clarice Starling?" I asked.

She looked at me suspiciously. Great, Jack. Pull a Dad and try to get in her head. Brilliant plan.

"Sorry," I apologized. "I was out of line."

Ardelia shook her head. "That was pretty sharp of you. I don't know if Starling knew what she was doing seventeen years ago—was she drugged, or just plain irrational? She deserves a chance in the real world, if that was the case."

"What if she's happy with what she chose?" I asked. "That doesn't make her any less rational than she's ever been, it just means she knew what she wanted and she got it. Think of it like that."

"I don't see how she could have wanted that."

"Well that's why you didn't run off with him."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're pretty smart for a kid."

"Being sixteen doesn't make me any more intellectually inferior to you than anyone else."

Oooh, big words. I love it. 

"Did you ever try to find her?" I asked.

"Starling? I've never stopped." Mapp fiddled with the ring around her neck. "I've had too many false leads and dead ends—I'm always more than a few steps behind her. I started losing sleep with this Mafia business—this ring used to be snug on me. It's too big for even my thumb now."

"You said yourself she doesn't want to be found," I remarked. "Maybe you should leave her alone until she chooses to be found."

"She said the same thing about Lecter," she muttered. "Thought that the world should leave him alone and he should do the same for her. But she still heard from him sometimes—once after she graduated, then one more time after she got in trouble for the Evelda Drumgo shooting. She didn't get anything after that, because the Bureau confiscated everything he sent her before she checked her mail."

Leave it to Dad to beat a dead horse. Well, maybe the horse wasn't totally dead. Do I count as proof to that idea?

. . . Sigh. 

That, by the way, was when the phone rang. Ardelia's quiet bitterness disappeared when she answered it. "Mapp," she said briskly.

I leaned back in my chair and looked around the small kitchen as I waited for the conversation to finish, but realized that Ardelia Mapp was looking at me with some kind of suspicion suddenly.

I felt my cheeks color a bit, and looked away.

"It's Crawford," she told me. "Seems like you're in a mess, hmm?"

I nodded. "Seems like it." Then I continued to wait for Jack Crawford to hurry up and let her hang up. I had something to say.


	3. Jack so loves her Hat and Talks to Ardel...

Well, here I am again

Well, here I am again! And with another chapter, my goodness . . . it took me long enough. Sorry about that—I originally had it written so that Mapp met Jack in the Vancouver air port by chance when someone shot at her and Starling, but I wanted her to call Jack Crawford without knowing who she was calling, so I re-wrote that and posted what you know of as chapter 2. This chapter I hated to start with, and I'm still not sure if I did it okay—I had a point to convey and so I tried to. But I don't know, tell me what you think. And I hate how I ended the whole thing, so I'm re-writing _that_, too. Sorry, I know. And you won't believe it—after only three chapters, I finally own them all! Ah . . . yeah, right. Later, keep up the lovely reviews! Thanks—you're the people I write this for!

*

Ardelia finally set the phone down in its cradle and sat back in her chair, her dark almond gaze level with my own maroon. (Why did Dad have to have _maroon eyes_? I mean, I could totally see him with blue eyes and not look weird or anything. I guess that's just Dad for you, though. He can't stick with what other people would want. But to ease my mind, and probably to amuse his, Dad had blue contacts so that he wasn't quite as noticeable.)

"So what did Jack Crawford say?" I asked.

"Someone is very set on killing you. But here's my question—why would the Mafia want _you_? To my knowledge they've been hunting Clarice Starling. Why you?"

I could see the wheels turning in her head, and I couldn't decide whether I should tell her myself or if I should let her figure it out on her own.

I shrugged. _Probably shouldn't. Oh, fuck it._ "Why not? Think about it, Agent Mapp. How familiar do I look?"

"How familiar can you look? I've never met you before."

She was studying me with such intensity and she had the answer right on the tip of her tongue, she just wouldn't say it.

"Well who do I remind you of?"

"I know what you want me to say, and you act nothing like Starling."

"Granted. Who do I act like?"

Mapp narrowed her eyes. "Someone."

"I may look like my mother, but I am my father's daughter through and through. Almost." I couldn't let her think I was some kind of . . . well, cannibal, and decided I should do what I did with Jack Crawford. "And I should tell you that . . ." I sighed. Let her figure it out herself. "I'm a vegetarian. It's not that I don't trust my dad when he cooks, it's just the concept of 'what if.' From here, _you_ figure out what I'm trying to say."

How much more indecisive can I be? First I wanted to come out and tell Ardelia myself, then I wanted her to just figure it out herself—with some hints, of course. But now I wasn't sure if I even wanted to tell her—on the simple basis that she probably knew, from the look on her face.

Dawning. Surprise. Shock. A few other things I couldn't place. But I think horror and a little nausea was in order for her, as her opinion of my father was probably lower than Jack Crawford's. If that was even possible. 

"So? What do you think?" I asked, acting very smooth. Inside I was wound tighter than a rubber band.

Silence.

__

Oh, God, I killed her. Don't tell me she had a heart attack, please, I can't handle that now.

"Right . . . I should have told you earlier." I let out a heaving sigh and shoved my hair out of my face. "But it's not an easy thing to tell people."

"I can imagine."

"Well—yeah, I guess you can. You and Jack Crawford are the only ones who know right now."

"And that's why you're a target," Ardelia murmured. "They'll get you before Starling." She held her tongue for only a moment. "Or—I guess it's Lecter now, isn't it?"

I shook my head. "No. They can't legally get married, with the bulletins out for Dad and all. But we have false identities that we live under, so they've been married since Mom was twenty-six under fake names. It's nice to think that there's some way for Mom and Dad to be married, since it ain't happening in the real world. Technically she's still Starling."

"Ummm."

I took a sip of tea to hide my discomfort. "Is that all Jack said?"

"Yeah. Just sort of explained your Mafia situation. Omitting some things."

"I would think so."

More silence.

"Do you know when you'll hear from your parents?"

"No. They're on their way to Florence."

"How brilliant."

"That's what I said, but Dad wasn't in the mood to be wrong. So here I am, and there they go."

"Sounds like it. And you do know that your father is a cannibal, right?"

I vividly remembered having this discussion with Jack Crawford earlier. "He's retired," I muttered.

"For now."

"What does that mean?" I snapped irritably. I don't have my dad's patience. I have my mom's smart mouth. It's not a fair trade.

"It means that you weren't even born when he was on his killing spree," she replied sharply. "I was. And in all technicalities, it's his fault that your mom is in so much trouble with the FBI now. All the people she supposedly murdered were victims of Hannibal Lecter—Mason Verger, Frederick Chilton, two police officers from the Tennessee mental institution—that's just a few, and she didn't kill any of them. Chilton hasn't been proven dead yet, but he's been missing for almost thirty years now and he's not even listed as a kidnapping. Lecter sent him a note after his escape and practically told him that he would be an entrée in the near future. Verger had an eel shoved down his throat and there was some of Lecter's hair and scalp under his nails. And the police officers—well, no one is certain of how they died exactly because of how many arteries and body parts were cut off. That's the truth of it."

"Yeah, I knew about Chilton and the officers. Verger wasn't Dad—he and Mom had cut town by then. Damned if I could point fingers, but I wouldn't if I could. And with the conviction you said that with, you don't think my mother did all that, either. Whatever my father did or didn't do, my mom's ass is on the line for no reason, and that's what I want your help with. Or—I guess that's what Jack Crawford wants your help with, anyway. But whatever you have to do, _I _have to be on a plane to Florence when my parents tell me when my flight is. Dad is pissed off enough that I'm in D, C. with Jack Crawford to start with, and I don't want to be in any more trouble. What you decide probably says if my mom gets turned into a head on a pole or not. It's your call." I set down my teacup firmly, and then my memory flickered to when I was little, and Dad dropped a teacup from the table. It was empty, and I never knew if it was an accident or not, but the curiosity with which he studied the remains always made me wonder what he thought about when he saw the pieces shatter on the floor. Later on, when I was twelve, I wondered if the cup would ever come back together. I don't know why. It just seemed like a decent thing to think of. And then, sitting in front of Ardelia Mapp, I briefly considered knocking the teacup off the table to see what would happen to it. But common sense told me it would shatter across the clean tile like anything else would, and that anything else would shatter across the clean tile like the teacup. So I didn't. Maybe that's why Dad was pronounced insane and I wasn't—because I knew that the teacup would never come back together. If that was even what Dad thought about when the teacup broke.

She sighed. "I'll think about it and tell you in the morning."

The day pretty much halted there.

*

I rolled over in the guest bed to the ringing of my cell phone, of whose ringer I had turned on extra-loud that night just in case. I made myself wake up so that Dad wouldn't get on me for sleeping late, which I was sure I did.

"Hello?" I yawned.

"Hi, Jack," came Mom's voice.

"Morning," I replied. "Are you in Florence yet?"

"Change of plans, you're going to Paris."

"_I'm_ going to Paris, or _we're _going to Paris?"

"We. Sorry. We're not in Florence anymore, we're on a train to Paris now."

"Oh. So when do I fly out?"

Mom thus proceeded to give me the time and departure number, whatever, for my flight and told me that I should just give my last name. My fake one, of course, but you know what I mean.

"Hey . . . this is a goofy question, but why the hell did you go to Florence without me, even before you knew I was in Washington?" I asked, too tired to care about the answer.

"Oh . . . we weren't, your dad was referring to the payphones in the terminal."

"He said 'ridiculous airplane phones.'" 

"Well that was his opinion of the phone he was on."

"Right. So did you end up catching the same flight?"

"You mean after someone tried to kill us again? Oh, yes. We were originally going to wait for you—or fly out to Washington, we were still deciding—but then the phone booth next to us blew up."

"Fun. Well I guess I'll see you guys tomorrow, huh?"

"Yeah. Uh—" she dropped her voice for a moment. "Before you hang up . . . how is Crawford?"

"Jack? Oh, he's . . . tired," I finally said, for lack of a better word. "I think he took mandatory retirement hard."

"He wasn't looking forward to it," she replied. "He's been getting dealt a bad hand for a long time. His wife died while I was still in the Academy, but he'd been taking care of her for years before that. And he was good friends with Will Graham, and Will's had it hard, too. Those were just a few things that stacked up against him."

I can guess at some of the others.

"He's not half bad. I can imagine what kind of section chief he made."

"He never wanted much more than that. Crawford thought he could help more with a smaller title. It earned him more respect, because everyone knew he could have been in charge of everyone if he wanted to."

"Well I like him."

"I did, too. But too much has changed."

I was quiet for a minute before saying anything else. "He blames himself, you know. For you and Dad—he took it really hard, and that's why. He thinks that if you hadn't gone in to see Dad, none of this would have happened—because he was the one who sent you in."

"I know he did, no matter what I told him. And by the time he really needed to hear it, well . . ."

"Yeah. I guess Dad's not in there now, is he?" I asked with a smile. Mom has never discussed her time with the FBI when Dad was around. It's not that he ever got mad, but I don't think Mom ever felt comfortable enough discussing any sort of longing for her old job. I don't know. I'm not the ex-FBI agent, am I?

"No, he's getting ice. I should probably let you go. I have to pay for this phone call twice—once on my tab, and once on your cell phone bill."

That's when Ardelia Mapp stuck her head into the room. "Who are you talking to?"

"I have to run, Mom. I'll pay for this one, okay?"

Mapp blanched a bit. "Jesus," she whispered.

"I don't care—you don't need to worry about phone bills till you go to college."

"Of course. Later, okay?"

"Love you, Jack."

"You too. Tell Dad I said hi."

"How about we tell him you said _hello?_"

"Oh. Tell Dad I said _hello_."

"Of course." 

"Bye." 

We hung up, and I rubbed some sleep out of my eyes so that I could look at Ardelia Mapp. "Sorry. I'm not going to Florence—Mom wanted to tell me that I'm going to Paris."

"Paris?" she repeated. "Fancy. But Lecter always did like it fancy."

"And for that, I've never flown coach a day in my life. I fly out at noon."

"To Paris?" asked Mapp.

"No, to Siberia. I'm meeting my parents at the Paris airport—Dad made all the arrangements already."

"I see. As an FBI agent, I can't really let you leave."

"Are you off-duty?"

"Yes."

"Then until you clock in at the office, you're not an FBI agent."

"That's not how it works."

"I haven't done anything wrong, and neither have my parents . . . for like seventeen years, anyway. Look, we're not going to cook anyone—or Dad isn't going to, as the case may be. You can have me tabbed in Paris, if you want," I offered. "So long as Dad doesn't find out."

Mapp frowned. "I have other plans. I'll give you a ride to the airport, okay? You fly out in a little over an hour."

"Shee-it. Oh wait, I only have a carry-on bag. No baggage problems," I remembered. But I was still very suspicious—as the daughter of a national delinquent, I am suspicious by nature, and Ardelia Mapp was letting me walk very easily. She wasn't even ordering me to take her to France with me in hopes of catching my father or my mother, whichever seemed more reasonable. Dad on the simple basis that he was a murderer (such a kind word in comparison to 'cannibal,' don't you think?), Mom on the more complicated basis that Mapp felt that she'd been betrayed by a good friend and lied to on a few levels. 

"So you're really going to let me leave?" I added.

"Yes. You have a point—you haven't done anything wrong. I can't legally keep you here without getting sued for kidnapping, and I don't want to think of the other ways I could get in trouble," she replied. I tried very hard not to smile—she was thinking well enough to come up with a decent point. Her problem would not be legal, by the time Dad was done with her. It would all be a matter of how much medical insurance she had.

I can't believe half the things I find funny. Sometimes it's enough to make me sick.

"And you're giving me a ride to the airport?"

"Yeah. Go ahead and get dressed—I'm assuming those are clothes in your bag, right?"

"Yeah. My mom dropped the bag at the airport, and I guess I picked it up when I hauled ass to the plane."

I did? Yeah, I guess so.

"While you're getting dressed, I have to call the office and tell them that I'm going to be later than I already am, if you don't mind."

"I'm not complaining."

She ducked out of the room, and again I had the feeling that Mapp was being too easy, just letting me fly out to France, no strings attached. Something was up . . . in my own opinion, at least.

I opened the bag to see what Mom had packed in there and if it was even my clothes—yes, they were, and I cheered up more when I found Dad's hat in with my stuff. It was a duffel bag and only had clothed for one day, but they were good clothes. A pair of my old tailored blue jeans, a little white tank top that Mom only let me wear around the house and under a shirt, and lo and behold, a black overshirt with white buttons. The hat in question was one of Dad's that I borrowed all the time, nice and white with a black hatband. I love that hat.

The clothes were mine, so they fit nicely—the white tank top hugged me tightly, and the black shirt hung loosely in nice contrast. The jeans were your average wear-me fit, and the hat just made my day.

I walked into the kitchen where Mapp was just hanging up the phone, and I felt a hundred percent better than I had in that stupid skirt. The hat was resting on my head comfortably—no, I mean it. I am In Love with that hat.

"So was that your office?" I asked.

"Yeah. They're okay with it."

How could it be that easy? _Why_ was it that easy? It couldn't be that easy.

Maybe she just had a nice boss.

I gripped the strap of my duffel fidgetively—I just made that word up. "So are you ready?"

"Yeah. I'll see you to the gate."

Okay. Or you could see me to the gate. It would have been less intruding to just drop me off, you total freaking stranger. 

At the irritated thought, I laughed at myself. Was I anyone to talk? I'd practically demanded a place to stay from her, and I didn't even know who she was. And I'd wheedled a hot chocolate from Jack Crawford, another stranger who knew me only through my mother's memory. What I needed was someone I'd known for a loooong time, not another stranger—oh, but then I'd never get anything again. 

I shook my head and tried to clear the incessant babbling of my own nervous mind as she escorted me out to her car—an older Mustang, classic but old enough to be a piece of junk. Hers was very similar to the one Mom used to have, but it had a removable hard-top for a roof and it was green. "Let's go."


	4. The Plot Thickens *A couple of times*

I sat on the plane, quietly reflecting on Ardelia Mapp and what she was up to 

Disclaimer: It's been a while, huh? Well I know this chapter seems like a lot happens, but Ardelia and Jack signify the way the world seems to come down around Jacqueline all at once with their presence. So no, I didn't just get bored, it's supposed to pick up and run in this chapter. Even though it's a shortie chappie. Btw, I don't own them. And in case no one noticed, yes Jack has a bit of a personality disorder. As my character, I suspect she's a little bit mentally unbalanced. But when your dad eats people for a living, who wouldn't be? Cliffhanger, btw.*

I sat on the plane, quietly reflecting on Ardelia Mapp and what she was up to. I couldn't help but be suspicious of her—she let me walk far too easily. No FBI agent with a brain on loan would let Hannibal Lecter's daughter walk into an airport and fly to Paris.

But Paris was much wiser than Florence, even though I would have jumped at the opportunity to go home again. Mom never did like living in Florence, but Dad and I both seemed to fit in well; he moreso than I because he was as well-dressed as the other Florentines and probably more at ease. 

I looked out my window and sighed. Speaking of Ardelia, I absolutely could not mention her to Mom and Dad. I was grounded enough for seeing Jack Crawford (my namesake, I think) by myself and telling him who I was, and I would probably have no social life ever again if I let slip that I had stayed with Ardelia overnight.

I reclined my seat and brought the hat down over my eyes. Sleep was definitely a necessity. But even as consciousness evaded me, the words still kept drifting through my mind.

__

What are you playing at, Agent Mapp?

*

Nine hours, three in-flight movies, one sad excuse for an in-flight meal, and four flight changes later, I was looking at the International Airport in Paris and not seeing either of my parents anywhere.

__

Oh that would be just my luck, I thought dryly. _Dad's going to make me walk around Paris before he picks me up somewhere. Thanks, Dad._

I sighed and made my way through customs, sufficiently unarmed and my duffel bag clutched in my hand tightly, my hat resting on my head comfortably to hide my discomfort. I sighed again, ignoring my heartbeat and the desire to not be alone in Paris—but I'd made it alone in Washington, so I'd be fine. I made for the door with a bit more confidence in my step and almost screamed out loud when I heard a voice behind me.

"Really, Jacqueline. If you wanted to wander Paris by yourself, you could have at least told me."

I spun around and saw Dad standing behind me, blue eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. I ripped off my hat and made a dash for him, and threw my arms around his neck.

"Dad don't SCARE me like that!" I exclaimed. "I thought I was going to have to look all over town for you!"

He took my bag and we started out the door. " I thought about it," he warned. "If you ever fly off to Washington like that again, I _will_ let you wander around whatever city we end up in until you realize just how dangerous it was."

I scowled. "Fine, I get it."

"And to Washington D, C. is bad enough in and of itself," he continued, and I kept my mouth shut so that he could give me the full lecture, "but that was incredibly thoughtless and risky to go find Jack Crawford the way you did. You're lucky he's been forced into mandatory retirement, and has no ties to the FBI, otherwise I have no doubts that he would have detained you. And then what would end up happening?"

"Well I try not to think about it, as that didn't happen. Besides, if I haven't already mentioned this, Jack Crawford was not the person I intended to ask for help in the first place," I threw back as we walked to the car. "This chick came up behind me and gave me a random D, C. number, which I called when she left, and lo and behold, Jack Crawford answered the phone. So I also had a plane ticket in hand that would get me to Washington for free, so I used it. Besides, whoever was shooting at us in the airport knew Mom and I would fly out of that airport. And then I lost Mom anyway, because she went into FBI mode and disappeared."

Dad said nothing on the subject after that.

*

I was a little happier to see Mom than I'd expected, and gave her the biggest hug ever. "Hi, Mom," I grinned.

She narrowed her eyes after the initial hi-Jack was over with. "I hope you had fun on your little romp," she told me firmly. "If it wasn't so important that we try to get along right now, I'd ground you for the rest of your life."

I flinched. "Mom—I got the lecture."

She glanced at my father briefly. "Did she, or is she trying to worm out of it?"

"Both. I say have your way with her; I have few reservations in locking her in her room," he replied.

"Dad! You are absolutely no help to me whatsoever."

"I would be if you hadn't traipsed off to Washington," he threw back. I scowled.

"Fine, I get it, I'm in trouble. Can I at least go for a walk?"

The answer: a resounding 'no.'

*

I tried again the next morning.

"Please?"

"And where exactly would you go?" Dad asked casually.

"To get coffee."

"I have coffee made," put in Mom.

"Yeah, but your coffee tastes like cardboard. This is France, home of the French Roast. They're infamous for good coffee," I shot back.

"I seem to remember something about you being grounded . . ."

"So I can't fly to Washington, big loss," I scoffed. "I'll bring some back for you."

"You have thirty minutes. If you aren't back in the set time, I'll see to it that you never find out what the word 'social' means," Dad warned. "And I personally like your mother's coffee."

I stared. "That's okay, I still love you."

He fixed me with his warning glare, and I fell silent. Not because my father is a man-eating cannibal (oh the redundance), mind you, but because he's my dad.

Ten minutes later I had wandered from our temporary flat to a good coffee shop with a view of the city, sipping my drink and waiting for something interesting to happen. I should never, ever do that. Ever. Because something interesting always happens.

I heard chairs scooted around my table area, and I turned around. And almost dumped coffee into my lap.

"Oh, don't even tell me. I'm dreaming and you're not here. Do you know HOW MUCH TROUBLE I AM GOING TO BE IN?"

Ardelia Mapp and Jack Crawford exchanged glances. "We're aware of that."

"And not to mention you two! Hello, you honestly think Dad's going to offer the couch to you? I hate to be the one who says it, but really! And while I'm still thinking about it, DO YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH TROUBLE I'M OFFICIALLY IN?"

Crawford cleared his throat and took his bifocals off. "You'll be grounded, eaten if it's extremely bad, but it's better than being detained by the FBI and possibly arrested for harboring two known criminals. One of whom killed an agent before you were born. Consider yourself lucky."

"_Harboring criminals?_" I repeated shrilly. The other nice thing about Paris is that no one cares what you say, ever. It's your own business and no one else's. "I'm not of legal age to harbor a boat, let alone two criminals who, may I point out, are my parents! You're totally not arresting me for that!"

"You're right," Mapp told me. "We're not—for a price."

"You're bargaining my freedom," I exclaimed incredulously. "Oh that's brilliant."

I hesitated at my own reaction. It was too stereotypical of a teenager for me. I was not a stereotypical teenager, I was the daughter of a psychiatrist-gone-cannibal who was raised on the East Coast but felt more at home in Europe. That said something about me, for crying out loud. I quelled my rising panic and set my jaw. 

"So what are your prices?" I asked calmly.

"You give us Lecter and lead us to the Italian mafia. In return, we let you and Starling walk."

I narrowed my eyes. "You're asking me to turn in my own father?" I demanded quietly.

"We're asking you to turn in the most dangerous man in Europe," Mapp corrected.

I raised an eyebrow and smiled coldly. "Oh. Well then I think I'll have to turn you down on your offer. Sorry."

Mapp and Crawford exchanged glances. "Jack, you don't understand—" began Crawford, making a move towards me.

I held up a finger to stop him. "Touch me, Mr. Crawford, and you'll have to deal with the French police for harassment—not to mention my father. I appreciate the hospitality you've both shown me, but demanding that I give you my dad is not a courtesy I can show you in return. I assure you that I'll find a way to keep my family safe and intact, so I think you've wasted the money on plane tickets here. America suits you better; this is France. I know it almost as well as I know Florence and Italy, so I'll be fine here. I'm afraid you fit in better in Manhattan or Washington, so I recommend you go back there." I stood up and picked up my coffee with a slight clip to my movements and turned away from the two agents.

"Jack, that's the best deal we can offer you," Crawford called to me. "You need to understand that."

I glanced back at him. "I do understand it. That doesn't mean that I'll agree to it." And I walked off and headed to my flat.

Ten minutes down the road, I heard a cough behind me. I was being followed. Damn Crawford and Ardelia, they didn't know when to quit, did they? I sighed and cut down a back alley, not even considering how stupid that was.

Footsteps echoed behind me, and I picked up my pace a bit, suddenly realizing how empty the alley was. _Shitshitshitshitshit_, I thought as my heart fluttered. _I am so stupid, how can I be stupid enough to go down a back alley alone in Paris? Jeez. I am really stupid._

I didn't dare glance over my shoulder as the footsteps closed in on me. There was only one set of feet following me—where was the other one? I heard a splash in a puddle a foot behind me, and I broke into a run and threw my coffee over my shoulder in a blind attempt to hit my stalker. My feet pounded the pavement as I hauled ass to the nearest crowded district, but I didn't make it far. The collar of my shirt was snatched from behind, and chloroform was stuffed under my nose. I tried to breathe through my mouth, but the fumes choked me and I passed out . . . 


End file.
